Pro Ring Rat
by Beyond The Mat
Summary: An OC with zero moral and ethical standards tries to play Randy Orton for all he's worth. Is he really that stupid? Well, they say men have 2 heads and often think with the wrong one... Chapters 1-4 are the setup. Chapters 5-end: RKO, Cody, Ted, HHH, VKM
1. Chapter 1

**This is an off-site work written 11/10, which has nothing to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. It does involve Randy Orton, who should've known better by now. He likes to play dumb, but it's gonna get him in trouble.**

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><p>Maybe you wouldn't call it a compliment, but I would.<p>

"**_Those lips of yours were meant to suck cock. _**_"_

Lit a cigarette and flipped onto my stomach, sharing the cigarette with him. This wasn't our first night together. We get together about once every 6 weeks or so, whenever he's performing within 90 miles of where I live. I don't let him see where I live, though. Broken-down, seen-better-days single-wide in one of the worst trailer parks you could possibly think of...he'd know right out I was a ring rat if he saw.

He asked me once, narrowing those blue eyes on me, why I couldn't take him home. I made up a story.

_"My momma's sick and I moved in with her, to take care of her. She lost a leg to the sugar. She's a bitter old woman. You don't wanna go there, Ran."_

He hasn't asked me again, so it's sort of easy to hide the fact that I'm nothing more than a ring rat, looking to sink my claws into someone in one of the better companies of pro wrestling, or even UFC, depending on how much they make and how easily I can sucker the boy. Had more than my fair share, but giving different names, dying my hair and changing my look frequently has helped me go for the most part undetected. The other part that's helped is that a lot of those who I've been with got released from their contracts (Good thing I didn't land any of them, right?) and with new people being brought in, there's always new faces to keep an eye out for, to watch their careers, to track on the internet and determining if they're successful or not.

The one in my bed right now is at the top of his career. So. Fuckin'. Hot. His back's to me now as he rolled to his other side to take a drag of the cigarette, and grab his phone. His wife's been texting him-I know her ringtone-and while I was sucking him off, his girlfriend was texting him. It was like we couldn't have privacy.. It was funny to me (although I made like I didn't notice) that he almost lost his hard-on when the girlfriend called, but when his wife called, it was like his cock got new life and surged. I'm guessing that his girlfriend's a priority to him and the wife's sort of tired and played out.

Yet if either of them were really what he wanted, why's he coming to me (literally and figuratively?)

He likes to think he's complicated, but he's nothing more than a big old hick from the Midwest, who stepped into a job that suits him well...with a 7 figure salary. He's hot as hell, he's got a lot going for him, except he's not the brightest guy.

Which is what I bank on.

I traced the tattoo on his back with my nail, causing him to shiver and gooseflesh to rise up.

"Manda, cut it out," he said with a sexy bit of gravel to his tone. He didn't really want me to stop, he just wanted me to change the touch. So I let my nails glide down his back. There was no body fat there, or anywhere on him. He stretched out and handed me the cigarette back when he deemed that I'd scratched his back enough.

I took a drag off the cigarette and 'begged' him... _"Darlin'...pleeeeeeeeease let me suck you just like you like it again, before I have to leave? Please?"_

**_"You think I'm gonna say no to that? You're so good, you could suck the chrome off a tailpipe."_**

I slipped on down between his powerful thighs and got to work. Guys before him (and between our times together) are much easier to 'service', because it's hard to find someone with the combo of length and girth he sports. It's hard to suppress that gag reflex sometimes, but I manage, 'cause I know the big payoff will come somewhere down the line...hopefully when the girlfriend gets tired and played out, just like the wife.

He's stubborn, though. _"So fuckin' stubborn," _I "complained" when I glanced up at him and unwrapped my lips from around him. Said it with just the right amount of playful bitchiness. He gets enough bitchiness for real from other women, and has event old me I'm his "safe place," and to show me that, whenever I'm giving him a blow job, he shifts a bit so that when I'm about to get him to explode right in my throat, he can delay it and will make me work for it.

**_"So damn whiny. Stop talking and get back to blowing me."_**

Maybe you don't let a man talk to you like that, but I bet you'd let him.

Trust me. There are hundreds of thousands of women out there that would, but he likes stealing time with me. And I'm hoping that he's saving up his money like he says he tries to, and that once he starts a slight fall from the top, he'll need me even more.

Then I'll be set for life. See, this one, even when he's too old to wrestle, he'll be the hottest ticket at conventions, signings, all that shit. I'll be taken care of, and the one he'll say "saved" him, 'cause he's of the mindset that when he gets 12 years older, that at 42, he'll "Have" to retire, that his life'll turn to shit.

_"You don't never have to worry about that, Big O, 'cause I'll always be here for ya, willin' to do whatever you want..."_

Didn't expect him to yank my hair a bit to cue me to stop, because he wanted to go for his 3rd fuck of the night. I glanced at my watch at the bedside, and sighed. See, if I don't do that, I might scare him into thinking I'm trying to land him. That's showing my hand if I did something that stupid...tried that about 10 years ago with somebody who's now in the 2nd rated professional wrestling promotion, who's on his way out 'cause of drugs now...fortunately for me, he's too stoned all the time to even remember my time in his life. Let's just say that "J.H.", since those are his initials, was my training ground, and if "Big O" ever found out, he'd kick me to the curb so fuckin' fast, I'd never know what happened.

_"It's gettin' late. Momma's gonna be in a fit if I don't get home soon," _I said with 'regret' in my voice. Even upped the ante with, _"I've got to give her her insulin needles in about an hour..."_

**_"Then we'll make it quick," _**he groaned as he entered me roughly. If I didn't make like I had to leave, he wouldn't rush it. Fortunately, he loosened me up twice already within the last few hours, and with as forceful as he was ramming into me, it didn't hurt all that much.

Within about 10 minutes, he got done, and I got up, and was gathering my clothes. He was exhausted, and yet I could feel him watching me looking for my bra. I made sure to give the show of bending just the right way, and glancing on back over my shoulder at him, "catching" him getting an eyeful, and dressed in front of him too. Blew a kiss to him and left. 10 minutes later, my cellphone was going off.

**_You want to join me at the PPV?_**

Oh, shit, I thought to myself...he's NEVER asked me that. And the Pay-Per-View was next weekend, about 500 miles from here. I had to think fast...maybe he was testing me to see if I was clingy or trying some funny business on him. I knew to stick to the story.

_Can't, darlin. Momma doesn't have respite care in place. It's too expensive for us. Maybe another time. :*(_

He can't say that he always pays for "our" room, since I never stay the night and it's the hotel room *he* needs for the shows he does. He also can't say he always buys "us" dinner, since he doesn't pay for Room Service out of his own pocket. He's given me a few gifts...and he's had to "insist" I keep them. See, the more I say things are "too expensive" and knowing what he makes, he finds it charming about me that I'm not out to "use" him financially.

Scored a beautiful Coach bag, a full length leather trench, and $1000 Neiman's gift card this way. 'Cause he always says he feels bad that at my "young age of 25" (I'm really 34, but he has no idea, since I look so damn good and sold that Neiman's gift card for half the value so I could get Botox, so hush), that I'm tied down to "my sick momma" and never do anything for myself. And of course I have no boyfriend in my life or children. (The reality is my 9 year old son lives in Mississippi with his father, and my 7 year old daughter lives with her daddy and his new wife in Alabama. Yes, I tried passing off the boy as J.H.'s child and that fell flat. Tried showing off the girl as A.C.'s and that too fell flat...*sigh*)

So I guess he's starting to feel a bit of responsibility for me...my phone went off again.

_**Ok then. Was worth trying, figured you probably couldn't due to her health. But next time, let me know in advance and I'll give you the money for a couple days of home health care.**_

_Can't do that, Ran. That's too much._

**_I'll decide if it's too much, little girl. Stop arguing with me._**

_You never let me win. :{ don't want you goin' into your pocket with me. I'll just try picking up a couple extra shifts._

(Forgot to mention he thinks I'm a waitress at Waffle House. Fact is I collect a benefits check and do nothing anymore. Never reported my kids as not living with me anymore so I get triple food stamps.)

**_No you won't. You work hard enough being on your feet all day, helping your mother out and on your back with me. haha. I'd be pissed off if you worked yourself into the ground. Text me the week before December 18 and you'll get a ticket to TLC tables, ladders and chairs and be my guest. It'll do you good._**

_alright, darlin'. See you soon._

**_Later, babe._**

See, when he thinks things are his idea and I don't ask for things...he takes care of it. I'll bet you this month's food stamp street value in dollars that he'll "force" me to buy a new outfit to go. And if he wants me to go to a public event, I doubt his wife or girlfriend will be there...so...

...we'll see what happens, won't we?

I got into my 1998 Ford F-150 and headed back for the long ride to the New Hope Plantation trailer park, in Brunswick, GA.

When I got home, I probably should've expected what I found, but was still surprised...

"Aw, shit! NO, you've gotta be kidding me!" I cried...


	2. Chapter 2

**This is an off-site work written 11/10, which has nothing to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. We continue watching the spiral...Reviews welcome.**

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><p>I got into my 1998 Ford F-150 and headed back for the long ride to the New Hope Plantation trailer park, in Brunswick, GA.<p>

When I got home, I probably should've expected what I found, but was still surprised...

"Aw, shit! NO, you've gotta be kidding me!" I cried...

Cops don't come here to take reports when there've been break ins. Why? Because living here, your place will be broke into at least once. Normally, it's your neighbors who do it. See, money's short here. We do what we need to do. It's not like we've really got much of value, and the only thing they got from me was some gold plate jewelry. I didn't much mind since I couldn't wear it...it turned my finger and neck green, but the point was, I knew "who done it" since Jacob and Caleb, brothers from next door, came on over to "make sure" I "was alright."

See, every time Caleb and Jacob knock on your door, it ain't for good reason. Either one's going to distract you while the other rifles through your purse, or somebody's gonna hit on you. My purse was under the seat in the truck and the truck was locked, so they couldn't get at that for now, and ain't either tried to feel me up. It was "Amanda Darlene Morgan", (my current alias. My real name's Trinity Rose Abernathy), "you gonna be alright? We didn't see nothing. Vandals busted in and got your jewelry."

I played dumb now, since I knew for sure now it was these two who broke in...how would they know what got taken if I didn't say?

I guess it was fair, though, since I broke into their place 3 months ago and took their dead grandaddy's money clip. Of course I denied doing it, same as they'd deny it if I asked them now if they'd done this to me. I was the first one at their place to see if they were ok. I guess it's true that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime? Anyway, I pawned that money clip for $20, and the "gold" jewelry they got from me tonight wouldn't even fetch them $2, so at least I was still ahead.

I turned on some crocodile tears about how that jewelry belonged to my beloved Aunt Magnolia Jean (I don't have an Aunt Magnolia Jean, but I was convincing that I did) and that "the world's an awful place these days. I need to drive and go clear my head," I said, giving them a clue to leave and a way for me to get in the truck for a bit and then get my purse out safely. If I went and just got it and went back in, they'd play the distracting/rifling game and rip me off even more. I wasn't going to allow it.

So I went for a ride a bit. I almost, almost texted Big O about the burglary, but if I did, he'd probably figure out where exactly I'm living at. Not only would that destroy the life I've so carefully fabricated to tell him about, but he'd probably call the local police to help me and learn there was no such person here as Amanda Darlene Morgan. I guessed I wanted a little sympathy from him, for a fleeting moment, even though the burglary meant nothing to me and the fact I've done it to who did it to my trailer tonight was sort of Karma or whatever, but I made sure to not go anywhere near my phone awhile.

Drove around until about 8 am. That's when some of the trailer park starts going to bed, anyways, and I was ready for sleep as well. Last night caught up with me. I was sore and wanted a shower, so I pulled in, drove down the dirt path and parked right on the little stretch of front lawn I've got. I put my head through the strap of my bag and kept it close to my body once I got it situated, then went into the place. I propped a chair up under the doorknob since the lock was demolished, and got in the shower, with my purse hanging on the shower head. Yeah, it might get a little wet, so I had my wallet and cell in a Ziploc bag inside it as waterproofing, and I could shower in peace.

Or so I thought.

It was impossible to prop chairs under the bedroom window.

When I was done showering, I could hear that somebody was in my house. Make that 2 somebodies. Jacob and Caleb both. Damn.

They had to have heard the shower, when they walked on up, and I'm thinking, there's nothing left to steal...and then the realization hit me.

Aw, shit. They came to get me to do a three way. I heard them moving around the place, and my little TV went on. I could hear somebody cheery on the morning program. Kelly Ripa? Didn't know. Didn't care. Just didn't want to be fucking brothers on the futon.

Not that I didn't do it before with them in exchange for a little meth, but I was sore and sleep-deprived right now.

I turned the shower back on after I got out and got my purse down, and got dressed. Mercifully I had foresight to bring clean clothes in with me, and I'd call upon the services of a local friend of mine later on to help me get my clothes out of here, but enough of this trailer park. Fake ID, as always, was ready in my purse, and I had $30 in cash in it. (I'd later find out when I looked in the little pocket in my purse that "Big O" stuffed a couple of hundred dollar bills in there, which would be a huge help...but right now they were soaking wet since they weren't in the Ziploc)

Out the bathroom window I climbed, got my keys to the truck out, and pulled out. I didn't even bother looking in the rear view mirror at this shithole I'd called "home" for far too long.

But it isn't like $30 (or the $200 I'd discover later) would get me real far. I drove about an hour. I was on fumes in the gas tank and would have to stop soon anyway.

I ended up pulling into a, of all places, Self Storage facility.

Shut the truck off, hopped out and asked sweetly, "What specials are you runnin' this month?"

Now I was being all shy, looking at my shoes a lot. Ended up busting out with a story about my husband beating me and I wanted to store some of my stuff while I looked for a place. The old man behind the desk took pity on me...you might've, too, seeing an innocent-looking woman with slicked back wet hair and scrubbed free of makeup, obviously in some sort of distress, looking for your help...

The special had been $29.99 but he gave it to me for half, and upgraded to the large-size unit.

Guess where I'd be sleeping for the next month? Hey, the self-storage units are climate controlled. The trailer, with the cold weather, was like a refrigerator. Which would you choose? For a bathroom, there was a gas station down the street, and if I really sucked up to (or sucked off) the old man at the desk, maybe I could get a part time, cash job here doing work at the desk for a few hours here and there.

For now, I was getting some sleep. Then, when I woke, I'd call Bobby Ray (a former midcard wrestler who now lived on Social Security for winning the disability award due to his bipolar, and supplemented that with selling a little weed and appearing at some indy shows. We used to fuck but I never sought to land him permanently, I just wanted to fuck him, and we became friends. He was still huge and intimidating looking, (sort of like the old-timer Big John Studd) and was always up to helping me when I needed it. We'd go get my clothes and makeup and I'd throw the keys to the trailer in the management office. Gone were the days I'd have to worry about bills in the mail. I would have to get a P.O. Box to continue the food stamps, but the rest of the mail would end up "Addressee Unknown."

Oh, and my name now, for the Self-Storage unit, was Sherri Mae Vachon. Figured I'd pay homage to Ms. Martel, Ms. Young and Luna, all in 1 shot.


	3. Chapter 3

**This is an off-site work written 11/10, which has nothing to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. If anyone sees any redeeming qualities in this woman, speak now...Reviews welcome.**

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><p>So by now, you know I left the trailer park for good, Bobby Ray helped me get my clothes out, and the old man from Self-Storage asked if I wanted him to call the police. He thought Bobby Ray was my "abusive husband"!<p>

"Oh, no no no no no...this is my brother. I wouldn't have gone for my stuff without him," I said to Wilbur. Yeah, the old man had a name I might as well use it.

"As long as you're alright, Sherri Mae," Wilbur said. Which made Bobby Ray chuckle. He knew my ways.

A few blankets and a pillow later, as well as all my clothes (not that I owned a whole lot, but I had enough) and makeup joined me in this climate controlled pod I was calling home for a month, maybe more. It did strike me as ironic that this was a lot more livable than the trailer. I burrowed down after Bobby Ray left and I locked up, and slept for 10 hours straight. It was a nice, deep sleep, knowing nobody was going to bother me, and it was the first peaceful sleep I remembered in ages.

When was the last time I actually slept through the night, I wondered. Probably early summer, when Big O thought I was unreachable because my cell didn't have service in Canada, when I took care of Grandma Bess (my grandma died before I was born). The reality was I was doing 3 months in county jail for a bad check. It was safer sleeping in County than it was in the trailer park, but less safer than the storage pod. Only when I get arrested does my real name catch up to me, since fingerprints and all are on file and you can't change fingerprints like you can aliases. And it's not like it was a check from anybody I knew. I found one...well, one checkbook...that had fallen on the ground out of an old lady's purse.

My reasoning was she looked so old, she'd probably die any minute, and you can't take your money with you, right? It was best spent on somebody who could use it, I reasoned, rather than someone whose kids would fight over it, or if she didn't have any kids, would be ending up in the hands of the state treasury. Well, I was caught and sentenced to 9 months in County, and you do 1/3 of the time. So 90 days and I was gone.

Big O thought I was "noble" for helping out Grandma Bess and insisted on taking me shopping when he saw me. No, that wasn't the $1000 gift card. It was when he bought me the bag, took me out for a $100 meal for 2, bought me a $79 pair of New Balance and a pair of Seven jeans. I also accepted a "Loan" from him for $650. I told him it was back rent on Momma's apartment, but it was really the impound fee for my truck. In exchange, I let him fuck me raw. I was fucked up for a good part of the week, but had my usual 6 weeks to recover. I'll chalk that day and night up to "And a good time was had by all."

My dreams were the usual type. Princess and fairy things. For someone who lives the life I do, my dreams are pretty immature and somewhat Disney-like. I guess I should start a class action lawsuit of women who sue Disney for the unrealistic expectations we grew up with...expecting to be like one of the Princesses when we grew up. That shit doesn't happen.

It happened to two women I know of, that did what I do, as a ring rat: Both were named Elizabeth. One was now dead, she died at 42, and the other was married currently to the past champ of the big company. The dead Elizabeth was a beautiful woman. The live one has the face of a pit bull. If SHE could land a man in this lifestyle, ANYBODY could, you'd think, right? But it wasn't that simple.

The basic guidebook on how to successfully do this (and of course, you stumble along the way, like I have, because nothing ever goes completely by-the-book) is to:

-Zero in on targets. Don't get crazy with what you think you can get. Assess yourself realistically and then make some choices. Then start following him online, then at shows. Don't be too sexy, or slutty, or he'll just laugh and never take you seriously. Always have a little "hesitation", and always, always, ALWAYS be the first one to leave the hotel room. Don't be cute and leave a toothbrush in his room or GOD FORBID, a love note in his gym bag, unless you want him to think you're a stalker. Of course, you can portray yourself as a casual fan, but not a die-hard one and most certainly not someone in the IWC (Internet Wrestling Community) or he'll know you're up to something, and he will not like it.

-Play up your assets, minimize your weaknesses, and if you have to, change your life story as much as needed to tailor yourself to the star you're pursuing.

-Don't chase 2 in the same organization simultaneously. They DO swap stories in the locker room about who they're fucking and the last thing you want is for them to realize they're fucking the same girl. And if you're going to stoop to the Midcard, go for the Upper Midcard. If you find yourself looking at the Low card, get the higher end, or move on to another organization. This of course doesn't mean you can't chase 2 at the same time, but they better be working for different promotions that don't cross paths all that often.

-Always look your best. If you fuck up your teeth, find a dental college who will fix them for free or next to nothing. Bad teeth are the first sign of a ring rat. Even if you have to get damn dentures, do what you need to. You need to look decent. Don't gain any weight, either. If you're over 150 and under 6 feet, you won't get close unless they have a fetish for bigger women...and in the case that they do, they still won't marry you. A woman named Vickie who fit the heavier bill was the only one who ever scored a wrestler, and he ended up dead young, so it's not like she got all that far. She had to work for a living, and that's not doing it right. You want to score big enough to be taken care of for LIFE, not for a little while or even a long while. A WHOLE life.

-If you gain weight, or get in some sort of trouble, think of a plausible story to cover your tracks. If your target EVER finds out you had a brush with the law, or worse, maybe squeezed out a baby during your time apart (even if it's his), you're going to find yourself cut out of his life. Contrary to popular belief, you couldn't blackmail/bribe/win your man by letting yourself get pregnant. He'd make his lawyer offer you a one-time settlement to go away and sign a paper saying you wouldn't seek any more from him, and your name would get out and you could forget ever trying to cash in on the life. Your "career" as a ring rat would be dead in the water, and he'd hate you. That wasn't what you wanted. That was the opposite of what you'd ever want, because some of them, when they hated, got vindictive. They held all the cards in that situation, and you held absolutely none.

-If you find yourself fucking up too often, take 6 months (no more, no less) to get out of the game, and recharge your batteries. Find a job to see you through. Generally, strip clubs were better than most places in helping to stay in shape. Also, where else do you get tips with little amounts of coke or meth, from your customers? If you were with someone in the top organization, rarely would you be offered that stuff. The second place..you swam in it. But left to your own devices, little doses would get you by during your time to refocus.

When I woke up, I had to go to the bathroom. Badly. The self-storage had closed for the day, and there was a note on my windshield from Wilbur.

It read:

I reckon you'll be around tomorrow to pick up your truck. Normally we don't allow vehicles here but I'll assume you're with your brother and I ain't going to call your cell phone and trouble you about this today. See you in the morning. Wilbur

I ran by the back fence by a shrub and squatted. With nobody around, I didn't have to trek down to the gas station quite yet, so I could grab a bit more sleep in the meantime. If I was hungry, I had some Tic Tacs in my truck and a bottle of water. Remember what I said about gaining weight, ok?


	4. Chapter 4

**This is an off-site work written 11/10, which has nothing to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. Shall we continue or leave her to your imagination? Since it's likely she'll continue to play "Big O" for as long as he lets her...Reviews welcome.**

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><p>Morning came sooner than seemed humanly possible, and I got in the truck, heading down to the gas station. I'd found the $200 that Ran had hidden in my purse by now, and with the price of gas these days, I could fill up my tank about 4 times, 5 if I was really careful about how I drove.<p>

I filled up the tank...$49.27, ouch...and then parked beside the restroom. What I did next was something I'd done a million times before. Maybe you've heard of a whore bath? That's what I could get done in the sink here. It would tide me over till I got down to the truck stop and could pay for a shower. A big spider climbed in the busted bathroom window as I washed up and I watched him climb down the cinderblock wall. I've shared spaces with worse than this. Hell, it was company. I finished and looked up, and I'd been wrong. He wasn't climbing down the wall. He'd had a whole web going and was now upside-down on the ceiling. I said 'bye to it (Like I told you, it was company) and headed back down to the Self-Storage unit.

I pulled back in the driveway and Wilbur came out of the office. _Oh, shit. Not now. At least let me wake up a little more, _I thought to myself, but forced a smile when he waved me over, motioning for me to park and step inside the office. Had he somehow found out I'd stayed the night? Couldn't be, right? My truck was here but he'd presumed I'd gotten a ride and was out with my "brother" overnight.

I hopped out of the truck after parking, said somethin' like, "Glad the cold spell's lifted." He said mornin' and invited me inside. The smell of a brewing pot of coffee was almost intoxicating and he offered me a cup. I wasn't gonna turn down free caffeine.

"Thanks, Wilbur," I said, and there was a bit of real gratitude in my voice. I'm not all fake.  
>"Welcome, Sherri Mae. I just wanted to talk to you for a bit," he said. Real, like, fatherly tone, too...if that's how fathers talk. I never had one, so fuck-all if I know for sure what 'fatherly' is, but he was being nice and he was old enough to be my daddy, so the hell with it.<p>

"Have a seat," he said, indicating the ripped-on-the-arms old sofa that made up part of a little sitting area in the office. Had a TV on the wall. Not the nice LCD ones like you can buy now, but the clunky old-style as to be expected. The tube's color was pretty much done in for and you couldn't make out the images all that well but the sound was still good. I guess that suited Wilbur, since his head was down doing work much of the while, so he listened to his programs more than watched.

"Hope you had a good night," Wilbur said, starting the conversation.

"Oh, sure," I answered. "Slept like a baby. Don't remember the last time I slept so good." I went into a little detail. It was early, the first taste of the coffee had pleasantly scalded my throat, and I guess I was comfortable in there, just him and me. "It's nice to wake up and not be worried about gettin' hurt." I was being honest, too. Bet you're as surprised as I am about that.

"Sherri Mae, what do you think you're gonna do with your life?" he asked. He looked real concerned. I had another swig of coffee, because yeah, while I sold him a sob story yesterday, I didn't expect this line of questioning today.

"I...I ain't sure. I was married for 5 years (blatant lie)...and was a housewife. I worked here and there as a waitress, so I guess that." I said, setting the half-empty styrofoam cup down and wringing my hands, a little nervous habit I've got.

"Did you want some job trainin'?" he asked. I almost busted out laughing but bit back my smile. _Job training? If you consider a blow job a job, I'm the CEO of my own company. I have my eyes out on a prize and trust me, I'm working quite hard, _I thought to myself.

"I...I don't know. I ain't sure how long I'll even be in this area, to tell you the truth, Wilbur. So why start somethin' I can't finish? Everything's just all up in the air for me right now."

"How you gonna survive day-to-day?" Wilbur asked. "I seen, I wasn't spying, but I seen that you didn't have all that much to put away in the storage unit. It ain't like you got furniture or anything, so I'm guessing you more or less fled. It got to be too much, you didn't have time to squirrel money aside, and just had to run," he said, like he was spinning a tale for what he thought my life was.

"I guess I'm that easy to see through," I said, with a little "nervousness" in my look. So to add to it, I turned on the tears. "Oh, Wilbur," I sniffled, putting my head in my hands, "what'm I gonna do?" Crocodile tears fell. Sometimes I just wanted to pat myself on the back.

"Well, you know the County's got a shelter for abused ladies, right?" he asked quietly, and Lord help me if I didn't feel him just rub my back. And it wasn't like, a sexual rub. I guess that is how daddies act.

"Wouldn't he find me there?" I asked. Now, a few years and a few states ago, I had stayed in an abused women's shelter. Got 3 squares a day (although I only ate 1...Remember what I told you in the last chapter about gaining weight), had a warm, clean bed, and they gave us clothes and donated toiletries, but the rules were awful. Like, you had to be in by 8pm, no exceptions, because that's when the doors got locked. No drug use or drinking. If they even suspected you were hammered or high, well then, 9 times out of 10, out you went. I didn't bring drugs or alcohol on the property, and twice I got to stay 'cause I said I wasn't high, I was just upset, and my eyes looked as they did since I spent the day crying, but they knew. They just couldn't prove it and I was the 1 given benefit of the doubt. I think I used the name of Verna Marie Brown then. That or Shelly Jean Vance. You notice all the names I use are proper, with middle names? I guess that's the bit of Southern Belle in me. Maybe the womens' shelter around here was better. Maybe they weren't as strict. Maybe I could go there. It would give me something to do to kill the month of November, right?

"No, not even if you called him up. I asked my wife all about this last night. She's a volunteer there. She wanted me to bring you back to our house last night, so she could drive you, but I told her that's jumping to conclusions, and I hope I ain't doin' that now. For alls I know, you'll stay with your brother or if you got other family, for good, or even go on back to your husband. But seein' you cryin' now, maybe you should go there."

I assured Wilbur that I couldn't stay with my brother all the while, 'cause that's the first place my husband would look for me and for as big and strong as my brother looked, he was fragile mentally. I think I said he was schizophrenic, "and I don't wanna set him off." As for other family, "They're all dead. It's just me and him. I tried to take care of him full-time once but he's too hard to handle, y'see."

Wilbur sighed sadly, like he pitied me. Where you might think I should be too proud to accept pity, haven't you been paying attention? I'm a parasite. I feed and live off others. It's what I am, it's what I do, and a leopard doesn't change its spots, so don't judge.

"Well, Sherrie Mae, I'll still keep your stuff for you, safely and for free" and he went in his pocket and gave me my $15.00 back from yesterday, "but I wanna know you're at that shelter and not living out of that truck of yours, you understand me? They give you 30 days at this shelter to get your mind together, and then they start like, job training and whatnot. Now, 30 days'll give you enough time to at least figure out maybe some ideas of where you wanna be. I think you should go."

"I'll go tomorrow," I said quietly.

"Why not today?" he asked.

"Well, you said 30 days...I don't want to get today taken away from me. If I go tomorrow, right after midnight strikes and makes it tomorrow, I'll get the full 30, won't I?"

"You're a smart one," Wilbur said as he rubbed his chin. "Although I doubt they'd deduct a whole day from you, I can understand why you want to be sure to secure a bed. Look, Sherri, bein' what you told me about your brother...if you want to spend the night in your unit...I know that sounds terrible, but I think you're skittish and you might not wanna come to my house...if you got a little rest in your unit and then showed up at the shelter at 12:01 in the morning...I can look the other way. There's laws and ordinances against anybody sleeping in those, but I ain't gonna turn you in and get us both in trouble."

I hugged him and whispered in his ear, "I don't know why you're so good to me," and heard him choke up. Damn, I should have Emmy awards by now.

By the time I left his office, I had another $10 from him as "go get breakfast" money along with my original deposit, as well as the name and location of the shelter. I was in.


	5. Chapter 5

**This is an off-site work in progress. The first 4 chapters were written in November 2010, and from here forward is brand-new, written in the Doc Manager here on-site. This story is not directly related, nor has anything to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. This isn't being thought-of in advance; it's just straight-up writing as the words come. Reviews welcome.**

Oh, and by the way, you'll start seeing more Superstars right about now, because that's where my mind's taking us.

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><p>The former tag team Champions looked at each other and shook their heads as Randy passed them by. The cellphone was glued to his ear and he had a look of angst on his face.<p>

"$5 says it's the wife he's talking to," Ted guessed, and Cody took a piece of that bet. "Nah, it's the girlfriend. When he's talking to his wife, he has the look of 'I give no fucks whatsoever' on his face." Ted handed over the money right then and there without waiting, because Cody had an eerie accuracy of predicting shit like this.

"You two talking shit about me?" Randy asked, with a smirk as his call ended. Both men chuckled and that was their answer. Randy rolled his eyes. "You don't even know," Randy lamented, "and for that, you're lucky."

"Lemme guess," Ted said, his Mississippi accent curling around the consonants in his speech, "Y'all need to go to the nearest clinic and get tested for an STD."

Cody smiled but shook his head. "Nope. My money's on a pregnancy scare. Only about the 50th one since we've known him."

Ted handed over another 5-dollar bill before Randy even reacted.

Damn if Cody wasn't smart.

* * *

><p>Corina looked forlornly at the testing stick she was taking to the trashcan. She'd been trying for a positive for some 6 months now. She could've sworn she was pregnant this time. Her breasts had felt like they were made of lead and she'd been throwing up not just in the mornings over the last week, but all day, every day, for 7 days. She was late. She should've taken the test before she'd called him, rather than phone in her suspicions and given in to Randy's demand that she test NOW while she had him on the phone.<p>

Dry-heaving and with a face devoid of makeup, she'd driven to the nearest pharmacy, and bought the test, with her boyfriend Randy Orton on the phone. He was giving her all sorts of verbal hell all through the transaction. Even while she was pissing on the stick. There wasn't an ounce of sympathy in him. Had there been a positive result, she was sure he would've turned his attitude around and done right by her. He dotes on the one child he's got, why would this be any different?

Waiting for the result..that was the longest 2 minutes of her life. And when it came back negative, he'd broken up with her on the phone. She'd gone from mistress to single in 17 minutes and 42 seconds, so said the record of the placed call on her cellphone.

She'd invested some hopes and dreams in this man, knowing that it was wrong to be fucking someone's husband, but in this world, you've got to look out for yourself. At 25 years old (a legit 25, unlike our Trinity Rose Abernathy), she felt like her life was over right now. She never realized that the man she fell in love with was a man that didn't truly exist...

..it was the IDEA of the man.

For someone who looks as he does, who plays a character, the lines between reality and fiction blur. She didn't get to see him more than twice a month, and when he did come to her, it was to fuck. Sure, when he left, she could lie in her bed, well-fucked and pleasantly exhausted, and dream a little. She didn't realize until that stick hit the plastic trash can liner that he'd never said the words that he'd told her in her dreams.

_I love you, baby._

_I'll always be here for you._

_You know when I leave her, we're gonna get married._

Those words had been in his voice, but while she slept, that sweet, deep REM-sleep that she'd always luxuriate in when he was through with her. But when she really thought about it, what had he said? While conscious, what tender words had he given her to let her think he loved her?

_You've got the greatest ass I've ever laid eyes on._

_Of course I like you. I don't repeatedly fuck girls I don't like._

_I guess you could consider us friends...but don't tell people about us, because I don't need the trouble. My wife knows I fuck around. She's not stupid. But as long as you don't have a name or a face she knows, we're cool. If you make yourself public, I swear I'll never fucking speak to you again._

She staggered back from the trashcan, almost recoiling in horror. She swore she'd just lost her fucking mind. She'd given up taking her anti-depressants when she'd met him at a house show, because they were making her gain weight and he'd said, "You'd be really cute if you knocked 10 lbs. off." By the next show, she'd knocked off 20, but at the expense of deteriorating mental health.

She broke right then and there. She simply shattered. With memory slips and a little help from some painpills she'd hoarded, within 6 hours, she was gone.

* * *

><p>"Randy, we need you in the office. Now," Hunter had said grimly. Cody and Ted looked at each other as Hunter had appeared in the locker room, stunned at the tone. Hunter usually talked to Randy like an equal...not in that tone. Not in the tone he reserved for mid-carders like themselves.<p>

Randy looked curiously at Ted, then Cody.

"Any predictions, Codes?" Randy asked, a little unnerved. Cody came up empty this time.

Randy shook his head and walked to the door, Hunter waiting there, and it closed behind Randy, leaving Ted and Cody in quiet speculation as Randy was being ushered to a makeshift office inside the arena.

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><p>Vince McMahon was beside himself. He'd had lots of scandals on his hands before...particularly when Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka had murdered his girlfriend in a hotel room, then ran to Vince for help. Vince had put up an excellent smokescreen for his Superstar, but those were the old days. With forensic evidence and everything, it just wasn't that easy anymore. He was pacing frantically, waiting for Hunter to bring Randy into the office.<p>

They appeared.

"Close the door," Vince directed as the two men walked in. Vince seemed to have aged 10 years overnight. Randy was clueless as to what this could be about. Hunter told Randy to have a seat on the metal folding chair that had been set up as Hunter stood and Vince paced.

Randy preferred to stand but he hadn't been asked to sit, he'd been told, and he had a feeling this wasn't good. Did Cowboy pass away? Did something happen to his wife? Fuck. A knot began to rise from his stomach, threatening his throat.

He knew better than to ask, even as his left eye began to tic. It looked like Vince was struggling to find words. Finally, the painful silence broke.

"Randy, do you know a Corina Coleman?" Vince asked. Of course the answer would be yes, but Vince was trying to be calm and rational about this.

Randy nodded with a shrug. Hunter looked more grim than he had when he'd fetched Randy from the locker room.

"What's the relationship?" Vince asked, his dark eyes locked on Randy's face, trying to read his Superstar's mind. When Snuka had come to Vince, he'd been in absolute terror and panic. Orton sat there cool and, calculating? Or just not aware?

"I fucked her sometimes," Randy said without emotion.

"When's the last time you -fucked- her, Orton?" Vince asked, stopping his pacing and standing directly in front of him.

"I don't know...3 weeks ago? Why?" he asked, looking up, uncomfortably. What, was she related to the McMahons or something?

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"I just told you, 3 weeks ago."

"No, you said you -fucked- her then."

"Same thing," he shrugged. "When I see her, it's to fuck."

"You haven't seen her since?" Vince implored, praying the answer was no.

"No. I talked to her earlier today."

Hunter and Vince exchanged glances. Vince sighed heavily and shook his head. Hunter had to take over talking now, because Vince's expression was simply, "WE ARE FUCKED."

"Randy," Hunter said, his tone still authoritative, reminding Randy of the Evolution days, "What the fuck happened on the phone."

"I don't understand, Hunter. What the fuck is going on?"

Hunter told him straight. "The police just called. She was found dead in her apartment, a bottle of painkillers and a bottle of Jack closeby but she left a suicide note, and your name was mentioned in it."

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Randy asked. Not really upset she was -dead-..she'd pissed him off trying to play him with a pregnancy scare, but hadn't he told her never to go public? HELLO, a FUCKING SUICIDE NOTE is PUBLIC.

"Yeah. And it gets better. Her cellphone shows you were the last person who spoke to her. Her mother was trying to call her but no answer. They apparently spoke every day at a fixed time, and when the girl didn't answer the phone, Mommy Dearest drove over and found the body. And the police want to talk to you."

Randy looked shocked. Not so much that she'd offed herself over him...he'd had more than a few girls threaten to do that, and he didn't know if she was the first to actually go through with it...but that he'd been the last of note to speak with her.

"I didn't tell her to kill herself," Randy said quietly. "I just told her I didn't wanna see her anymore."

Vince nodded. As far as he was concerned, Randy was innocent. Hunter shook his head, wondering if Randy had any idea what sort of power he had over people. Over the company at the moment, what with the Legal Team about to be contacted by Vince. And on a lesser scale, over a fringe of the female fan base. Not that the entire female fan base didn't go apeshit over the guy, but it seemed to be the fringe that Randy would single out for use. He seemed to, with the exception of the wife he'd chosen, pick a certain type. A type that Hunter would refer to as "psycho broads."

"You need to keep it in your pants, Chief," Hunter said, and shook his head. "Go get ready for your match. We'll take care of this."

"You'll make sure my name doesn't get out?" Randy asked as he got up. At that moment, Hunter wanted to punch him in the face. Just lay him the fuck out. As a father of daughters, watching Randy talk this way about the girl, even if she was a psycho broad, she was someone's daughter - but Vince overruled at the moment.

"I'll see to it personally," Vince promised. Hunter's disgust simply silently grew. Of course Vince would make this go away..even though Vince was the father of a daughter, Vince was first and foremost about the business.

Randy retreated to the locker room, and told Ted and Cody the short version.

"Was fucking a crazy bitch who turned up dead."

Ted and Cody sort of looked shocked. It was Ted who recovered his voice first.

"My money says that the cause of death was choking on your cock," he said, trying to make light of it. Randy actually smiled. Ted and Randy looked at Cody, who attempted to smile, but in the back of his mind, didn't understand the level of sadism at play here. At first, Cody thought maybe Randy was joking, but they knew Randy well enough to know when he was telling the truth or lying.

They may be best friends but it dawned on Cody right then and there that there was no such thing as in-character or out-of-character with Randy Orton. The man was truly a predator. Cody excused himself to finish getting prepped for his singles match, making an excuse that the trainer had to look at his neck, which had been acting up. He left Ted and Randy alone.

Ted then turned to Randy and asked, "Seriously though...what the fuck?"

Randy shrugged and told him what Vince and Hunter said. Ted shook his head. Unlike Cody, Ted wasn't much shocked by the behavior of mistresses, girlfriends and ring rats, OR the people in the business. Especially the ones in the Southern states. He was offered his first blow job at age 13 when he'd been traveling with his father. The blow job had been offered by a midcarder. Yes, a guy. Valentine. Of course Ted declined, but it wasn't as if he hadn't seen any funny business going on back in those days in the locker rooms. There was an air of debauchery in the business in those days. These days, things might be a bit more sanitized-you wouldn't find any of the guys blowing one of the others in a locker room-but you would find more use of Divas and women in general.

His second blow job offer came within a week or so, by a fan of his dad's. The woman had to be 30-something years old. Older than Ted even was now. He hadn't exactly said no-he hadn't said anything-so she took it upon herself to introduce young Junior to the perks of being affiliated with the business.

Randy's experiences were similar. One thing there was never a shortage of was women. Why should now be any different? Yes, they had wives at home, he and Ted both, Cody being the last single man in their close-knit group. Even Cena had a wife, pitbull-faced Liz. But that didn't mean that the world still wasn't their playground.

It just wasn't as much fun to play when bodies turned up cold and dead.

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><p><strong>This surprised me, too. :) Reviews welcome. Part 6 coming soon. Maybe even sooner than you expect.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**This is an off-site work in progress. The first 4 chapters were written in November 2010, and beginning in Chapter 5, this is brand-new, written in the Doc Manager here on-site, on the fly. This story is not directly related, nor has anything to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. The story took quite a turn in Chapter 5, so if you haven't read it, please go back now and do so. Because now, the ride begins and without the backstory, you'll be lost.**

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><p>Cody botched pretty badly in his match, which earned him a scolding from Vince. "Where is your head?" he was shouting. Cody's eyes had gone to Hunter's during the scolding and while Hunter kept a stoneface, he understood. "Runnels, unless you want to be demoted to FCW, I suggest you work safer and keep to the script!"<p>

"Yes sir," Cody said dejectedly. He felt Hunter's discreet pat on his shoulder but didn't turn around when he left the office, because the subject matter turned into things completely unrelated to Cody at that time. He went back to the locker room feeling sick to his stomach. He had to ride with these guys and was seriously close to throwing up now. What if he did it in the rental? He didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to shower, and maybe see if somebody else had a spot in their car open for him. But how to do so without being conspicuous? He was always accused of being 'sensitive', and while that wasn't a -bad- thing to be, it made him look weak and that wasn't something he could afford. Especially with Vince on his back.

He got back to the locker room and forced himself, once he hit a bathroom stall, to throw up. He'd jammed his index and middle fingers down his throat and was doubled over until nothing but saliva and bile were left. Shaking, he got up and dragged himself to the shower. At least he knew he wouldn't get sick in the car now.

* * *

><p>Ted and Randy's performances were flawless. They returned to the locker room talking, joking, on an adrenaline high from the crowd reaction. Pats on the back from some of the others on the roster were given, and they went to the showers without incident. It appeared that the news Randy had been given, and in turn gave to Cody and Ted, was long forgotten.<p>

The performances that they gave were the type of which Vince expected no less. Hunter and Cody were the ones horrified, one man more openly than the other, but yet no less horrified. When everyone's bags were grabbed and everyone was heading out, Hunter returned to the locker room.

"I've got to take Cody with me," he told Randy and Ted. "We need to discuss his performance tonight."

Randy hadn't watched the monitor but had noticed Cody avoiding him in the locker room. Legacy's Captain got a bit protective by instinct and he eyed Hunter now. "What was wrong with it?"

Cody looked from man to man and visibly flinched when Hunter said, "Randy, he sucked. Vince already went off on him, and I'll take him in my car now. You got the benefit of experience from working with me, let him get the same."

Normally, Randy would bristle and get arrogant, maybe even asking, "What? I'm not good enough? I can't mold my guys?" but with the adrenaline still pumping, as well as the need to get blindingly piss drunk with Ted tonight, he acquiesced to Hunter. He did give Cody a stern look though and said, "I expect better of you. I'll talk to -you- later." Randy walked to the rental with Ted. Ted had given Cody a sympathetic look and Cody had averted his eyes altogether.

Once Ted and Randy were out of earshot, Hunter said quietly, "Grab your shit, Cody. You're the only one who knows about this who's as upset as I am, and yet, it's like -we're- the ones who are fucked up. I'll drive you, you can room with me instead of those fuckin' monsters."

Cody didn't need to be asked twice. He grabbed his shit and followed Hunter out.

* * *

><p>Now, while all this was going on...I knew nothing about it. I was busy buying minutes for my Trac Fone, and filling out forms to enter the Women's Shelter. Wilbur's wife was a well-meaning lady but she smelled like mothballs and looked a good 20 years older than she was. She had hair and clothes that could only be described as Great-Granny. When the pattern on your clothes looks like it could be a couch or drapery, you don't wear it. Otherwise your ass ends up looking like an oversized loveseat. That's what she looked like. A big old overstuffed comfortable chair in a really dated living room, decorated on the cheap.<p>

I got to a part on the form that said I couldn't have any "appreciable assets." I didn't know what it meant and so I asked her. She said, "Oh, they mean like property that grows in value, or a bank account that earns interest." I had to chuckle. If I had either of those things, I wonder if I'd do what it is I do. I was allowed to list my truck as my property, even though I didn't want to give any more information about myself than I absolutely had to. 'Cause another time my real identity gets out is when I get pulled over, or a cop runs my license tags. I tend to drive 5 miles under the speed limit and make sure my brake lights and headlights are always in working order. I don't need to be reminded of who I really am and I don't need cops harassing me.

The forms got filled out and in thinking about the truck, I almost fucked up signing my new alias. Good thing I stopped myself and then signed it right. My handwriting is very girly, bubble letters in my script. I handed Wilbur's wife the forms and then followed her in my truck, to the Shelter.

It actually looked real nice, like a well-kept apartment complex. Garden apartments even, just 2 stories, with a big lawn and trees and whatnot. It didn't look like a Shelter which I guess was the point of the place. I parked in the parking lot next to her and followed her on the sidewalk on foot, towards the office.

A lady who was living there and her little kid passed us walking. The kid had on a John Cena shirt and 2 little dolls, or action figures, in his hands. One was Rey Mysterio and the other was a miniature of my man. I felt myself smiling for a second, but then forced the smile off my face as I got ready to play victim again.

And what happened in that office, I will remember for the rest of my life...

* * *

><p>"I can't get you out of Legacy, but I can say room with me, and stay as far away from him when you're not at an arena, until he gets a fucking grip. You're young, a lot younger than me. He was younger than you when he was assigned to me, and I'll be honest. I don't know what the fuck he's capable of. But I won't have him destroyin' you, and your career in the process. I need you to keep your head clear, Cody. As clear as possible. I don't blame you for what happened tonight. If I was in charge, I'd have taken you out of the match and let you have the night off. I know he's a sick fuck. But there's only so much I can do," Hunter said as he drove.<p>

Cody nodded, taking it all in. He felt like his loyalties were being tested. Randy had taught him so much. So much. He was his best friend. Even though Cody swore that when Randy RKO'ed Cody's father, there was more than acting going on there. Cody had hugged Dream in-ring, according to script. Randy then RKO'ed Dream, and Cody's response, where it looked almost like he was going to fucking cry..his loyalties being tested and torn...Randy had a flicker in his eyes that showed that there was no kayfabe going on. There was a sadist at work there. Ted had even felt the feeling of suspense and powerlessness. It was a twisted moment in a twisted storyline that was too close to reality. Even Dream had said some days later when his headache finally lifted, that Cowboy's boy hadn't needed to RKO him -that- hard. Even Dream wondered if there was something more going on, as if Randy was trying to be like the alpha dog and mark territory.

"I understand," Cody said. "I've got myself to worry about," he reiterated. "I've got a long career ahead of me if I play my cards right, or a short one if I fuck up. I'll do better," he said, thinking out loud.

"I have no reason to expect anything less," Hunter said. "But I can't knowingly stick you with someone who's a fucking sociopath, in your off-hours. We'll figure something out. Do you see any outsiders around?" Hunter asked, trying to think if Cody knew anything Hunter didn't, to try to get a hold on things.

"Outsiders?" Cody asked, unsure of what Hunter wanted to hear.

"Maybe ex-'E guys. Jeff? Jindrak?" Hunter asked in a leading way. If the answer was yes on Jeff Hardy, maybe there was a Wellness Violation possibility. If it was a yes on Jindrak, there could also be a possible Wellness issue, or Randy was maybe getting some other fucked up ideas in his head. Jindrak was known for certain...proclivities that Hunter didn't want to speak of, and if Randy was going South of the Border, where a lot more shit was legal than here in the US, and we're not talking substances, but rather, behaviors..well, then there could be a heap of trouble headed their way.

"Oh, no, neither of them," Cody said, and Hunter sighed relief. "Just some newcomers, some women." Cody mentioned the girl Randy had told them about. "Not the dead one," he said with a shudder, but started telling Hunter about Amanda, just Amanda, no last name disclosed to Ted or Cody, who Randy was inviting to the TLC PPV.

Hunter listened. There wasn't much, but there was enough to let Hunter know that Randy's wife was all but nonexistent in the business. The mistress of record was now dead, but there was another waiting in the wings. Hunter's full attention was now on Cody, as he pulled to the side of the road and let the young man speak.

* * *

><p>Within an hour, I was in the new place. Oh, it was pretty. It was like a real home. Everything was real clean, cleaner than the motel rooms Randy gets sometimes, but not as nice as the last hotel I visited him at. The furniture was on the newer side. I sat on the new couch and opened the Ziploc bag of cookies that Wilbur's wife had left. One bite of one wouldn't hurt me. I had a glass of water from the tap and was relaxing in the new place when there was a knock on the door, followed by a key opening the front door. The master key. Which meant someone from the office.<p>

Now, the papers I signed said that they'd give at least an hour's notice before just barging on in like this. Maybe there was an emergency? It's not like they couldn't have reached me on my cellphone. I stood up and could only look as the woman walked in with a uniformed cop beside her. I set the glass of water down on the table and the cookie beside it.

"You have one hour to leave," she said, looking at me with eyes I can only describe as full of hate.

"What? Why?" I asked, turning on the crocodile tears. What the hell was a cop doing here with her? What'd I do?

The cop spoke. "You don't exist. Your Social Security number on the form doesn't come back to anything. The name on ownership of your truck does."

I said no more. Yeah, one of those forms said that to live here, you had to have a clean criminal history. Background checks were random, though, it was more based on the "honor" system.

I never claimed to have honor but the tears admittedly turned real for a moment. I'd just gotten comfortable. AND they told Wilbur's wife, who was now bitching Wilbur out since I'd duped them.

All I could do was nod and grab my bag which I hadn't bothered unpacking yet. Maybe in the back of my head, I knew.

"I could arrest you for falsifying a document," the cop said as I prepared to leave, "but the Shelter doesn't want to press charges. Just leave, and don't you ever come back here again."

I almost asked him then TO arrest me, since at least I knew where I'd be sleeping that night. But I kept my mouth shut, and left.

"THE KEY, PLEASE," the woman said shrilly. Whoops. I handed that over too. I hadn't meant to keep it in my hand. Really. I had enough sense to not make any trouble as I left.

I passed the same little boy who was playing with his action figures now on the big lawn. "Hi, Lady," he said. I smiled and looked down at his action figures.

"You got yourself a Randy Orton," I said and the boy smiled. "Yeah, how do you know him?"

I almost answered but his mama came. I guess saying "I fuck him" isn't exactly a PG answer to give a kid, so I just said "Oh, I just know him," and walked out to the parking lot to get back on the road.

I had nowhere to go, and so I found my way to a library. They had computers there for public use. I pulled up the WWE road schedule. He was 300 miles away, but he was worth calling now.

I'd text him instead.

I was out of options now, really. For as resourceful as I could be, I had to get out of this town.

_Momma passed away, Ran. I'm all alone now._

* * *

><p>Randy had just gotten settled in the hotel room, and was getting ready to go drinking with Ted down in the hotel lounge. He looked at his phone and shook his head.<p>

"They're droppin' like flies today. First the girl, now another girl's mother," he said to Ted, and then texted Amanda back.

**_Sorry to hear. You need anything?_**

_Well, the state's gonna pay for her burial, but I got nowhere to go. Fell behind in her rent again and well, they're putting me out._

**_That's fucking cold blooded. You want me to wire money to the place, settle the back rent? That's seriously fucked._**

_No, there ain't anything here. Momma didn't have much. I'll sleep in my truck tonight._

**_It's too fucking cold out for that. Give me a Western Union location and I'll wire you some cash._**

_It's too much. I ain't gonna ask you for that._

**_You didn't ask. And I didn't offer. I'm TELLING you to do this. Amanda, I've had a fucked up day and I really don't want to argue with you. Do as you're told._**

_I'll text you back within the hour with an address. Thanks, honey._

**_No problem, babe. I'll be waiting._**

* * *

><p>So now, I've gotta get in high gear. I researched the town and found that a local supermarket was the closest Western Union. I texted him the address 57 minutes later, buying myself some time so it didn't look like I was waiting to jump on him with the information. Within 30 minutes, I had a thousand cash in hand. With a wire note that said "get yourself a proper black dress, and call me when it's all over."<p>

I scored some meth, and a motel room, and slept for 2 days after. Then I made the call.

Got his voicemail, and rarely do I leave one. I noticed the day on the calendar meant he was traveling home, and I always try NOT to reach out to him when he's Missouri-bound, since that looks needy, but he -said- he'd be waiting...so I left the briefest of messages.

"You said do as I'm told...so I'm doin' just that. And...well, Waffle House fired me, 'cause they couldn't get anybody to cover my shifts, but I couldn't skip Momma's funeral. I...well...call me if you want to."

I hung up and smiled. I could call this "Operation Predator" if I wanted to..but he's actually my prey.


	7. Chapter 7

**This is an off-site work in progress. The first 4 chapters were written in November 2010, and chapters 5 and 6 were written in the Doc Manager here on-site, on the fly. Same holds true for this one, #7. This story is not directly related, nor has anything to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. Some turns were taken in the last couple chapters that have required some serious caffeine intake for this writer to keep it going. On no sleep, with a lot of devious shit in mind, here comes 7. And maybe even 8. Reviews and suggestions welcome.**

* * *

><p>For some reason, I woke up freezing, even though it was stifling heat in the motel room. I took the threadbare blanket from the bed and wrapped it around myself, got up and looked in my purse for my cigarettes. My trembling hand fumbled with the lighter, but I eventually made contact. I sat in a chair by the window, but didn't open the curtains up. I didn't want the first rays of daylight hitting me yet.<p>

Collecting my thoughts wasn't happening easily. It had to have been a bad batch of meth I'd gotten my hands on. Or was it maybe because he hasn't called me back yet. I left that voicemail 24 hours ago. Surely he could've slipped out of his big old house in St. Charles and snuck a call to me? Yet, there's silence. Something ain't right. I don't like this powerlessness. I need to be in control of some of this.

I counted the cash I had left from what Randy had wired me. I'd be okay for a few more days, a couple weeks if I was really careful and didn't drive too far. Gas is fucking expensive and an 11 year old truck isn't exactly energy-efficient.

What if Randy doesn't call me back? Well, when I woke up from my first binge, that what-if was eating away at me. There was an indy show going on at a high school not 5 miles from me. I went. You could say I went hunting for small game to tide me over until the big one wandered back into my sights. It was a precautionary measure. Not something I'd want to actually hook into and not be able to get rid of.

I looked at the passed-out form that had been beside me in my rented bed, in this shitty motel in the middle of nowhere. Then I realized I'd made a critical error.

Remember the rules I laid out a few chapters ago, of the what and what-not to do's? Well, I fucked up. I broke a cardinal rule...The one from the show is somebody he not only knows, but is still in contact with. I don't know if they actually verbally talk, but they do tweet each other from time to time. They'd had some controversy last year or earlier this year, when the one who was here did a YouTube video and talked a little shit on Randy. And ate grapes. Weird shit.

Shit I shouldn't have touched with a 10-foot pole.  
>Shit that was going to take me down if Randy ever found out.<br>Oh my fucking GOD.

He stirred, his bloated form rolling over with a shiver since I'd taken the blanket. "Blanket hog," he chuckled.

"Food hog," I shot back, unthinkingly, meanly, startled by hearing his voice. What had been a drug-induced yet semi-decent fuck was now being seen in the artificial light of the lamp, which was bad enough and not as harsh in the light of day that I refused to let in through the curtains was now coming back making me sick to my stomach.

His chuckle died and was replaced by anger and disbelief, a what the fuck? expression on his face. "What the fuck did you just say?" he said, still sleepy, hungover, still feeling the effects of the previous night but getting mad. He wasn't as quick as I was, though.

"Nothin'," I said quickly, trying to think 3 steps ahead of him. His brother was so much better than he was in every way, I thought, reminiscing. I shook my head, tasting disgust and the remnants of rancid cock in my mouth combining with the cigarette smoke. I was filled with a mix of fear and hate of him right now.

"You talked a lot of shit about Randy Orton last night. Now you're talking shit on me?" he queried, mocking me, baiting me, scaring me. All the color had to have drained out of my face as he tried to sit up and failed, his mind working better than his body.

"I did not?" I asked, unable to control the panic that had seeped through my brain and mouth. My heart was racing. I talked shit about Randy? I TRUSTED this big-mouth who fixated on shit? He STILL talked shit about his ex-girlfriend years after their split. He never forgot anything. Elephants never forgot. Especially when you wronged them...

"Oh, you did. You laid it all out on the line, _Trinity Rose._" Oh, how smug he was. How frightened I became. How angry I became. He started repeating shit word for word that I had to have told him in a moment I'd obviously blacked out, because this was shit that was accurate that nobody otherwise would've known. Every word he spoke sounded like a parrot, parroting me. He was no closer to physical coordination than he'd been in the short while he'd been awake, but his mouth was running like a well-oiled engine.

I hated him. I had to shut him the fuck up however I could. I started to scream "SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!" and put my hands over my ears, but that just made him talk louder, over me. He threatened to text Randy and tell him everything. So. Fucking. Smug. Know it all. So sure of himself. Wielding power over me. He could destroy me and he knew it.

How smug he wasn't in about 30 seconds. He'd taken to carrying a gun illegally since he left WWE and was getting into some weird shit, some of the weird shit I realized I'd let him try on me last night. Shit he'd tell people. Shit he'd tell his brother, not that his brother remembered me, but you never know what could jog a memory.

I grabbed the gun out of his jeans that lay on the floor, using the blanket to cover my hand and to leave no fingerprints. I shot him in the face. I'd never killed a man before. I'd only done county jail time on bad checks, and maybe a few nights here and there for stupid shit like public drunkenness, a few parking tickets, contempt of court. I'd never murdered before, and the full scope of what I did didn't hit me right away.

I guess I expected the shot to be louder or the recoil on the gun to be stronger, but my hands were a lot steadier than they'd been when I lit the cigarette that was now on the carpet.

He didn't die right away. That took 2 more shots. Then I dropped the gun on his chest, grabbed my stuff, took his wallet and cellphone, covered him with the blanket...why, I don't know. Maybe remembering him covered with it would eventually take the sight of how he looked with his face blown away out of my mind...and I fled.

10 miles down the road, I pulled over. The shaking had begun again, but it wasn't me. It was a bad tire on the truck. I got out and changed it, putting the spare on like the pro tire changer that I am. By the time I turned the lugnut wrench for the last time, I found myself feeling a lot better.

I didn't have a choice, I told myself. And as fire engines raced past me, I looked in the distance and could see a dark cloud of smoke forming. _My cigarette was on the carpet. Could it be that it set the whole place on fire?_ I wondered.

Yep. That's the beauty of older motel rooms. Their carpets and mattresses and shit like that aren't as flame-retardant as the newer stuff. I wondered to myself if just the room or the whole place went up in flames. I shrugged and continued on the road.

* * *

><p>Ted and Cody were scheduled for a photo shoot. Cody was customarily early and Ted walked in just moments before the hands on the clock announced their appointment time. Cody was cordial. Ted looked like hell. The makeup people would definitely have to earn their pay on him today.<p>

It was apparent Ted wanted to speak to Cody alone but with the photographers, assistants and other employees milling about, it was impossible. Not until the actual photos were done and they were walking out together, did they get a chance to speak. Cody didn't initiate the conversation. Hunter's words were still in his head, about "those monsters", including Ted.

Out in the parking lot, Ted asked Cody to get in the car. "I've got to talk to you, and this is the only place I know of where the walls don't have ears," he practically begged. Cody nodded and got in.

Once the car doors closed, it all rushed out of Ted. "Look, just because I don't show things like you do...doesn't mean it doesn't bother me. I know he's a sick fuck. You're backing away, and I'm the one stuck with him. Cody, I might not be a great person but I'm not a fucking psycho. Don't leave me alone with him like that. I wouldn't do it to you...and you're doing it to me." There were tears in Ted's eyes by the time it all came out. Obviously Randy had talked a bunch of shit while they'd gone out drinking, which made Ted drink all the more. He was trying to wipe out a lot of the shit. Randy had talked about the "similarities" he felt he and Ted shared. Their love of women, the finer things, and being in control. Except Ted wasn't practically boasting about controlling women. Sure, he fucked ring rats left and right, but that's all it was. It wasn't -relationships-. His only relationship he admitted to was his wife. The rest of the women were interchangeable and it was only physical. Not a head trip. Not a power thing. "I'm not like him at all." Ted insisted on it. He feared maybe if he was left alone with Randy much longer, then maybe the influence -would- take hold. Randy was a very charismatic individual who could craft people into his fucking minions if he chose. He had a Svengali-like hold on Ted and Cody, but they were at least -aware- of it.

"Calm down," Cody said, and promised him he'd spend more time, "but you've got to let me tell Hunter. Hunter knows. Hunter feels like this too. He's helping me...he'll help you, too. I know it. We're the future of the business. If Randy keeps going as he's going, he'll be in the past before he knows it. There's nothing we can do about it. We might be his best friends, but we've never been his equals, and he doesn't listen to us unless it suits him."

Ted acknowledged what Cody said, and then both young mens' phones went off, a Google Alert regarding 'WWE Superstars'.

Apparently, one of the former Superstars was just pronounced dead, the cause of death unknown but foul play was definitely suspected, between a fire and bullet holes where his face used to be. They looked at each other in shock and hit the dirt sheets.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Just got a chance to text you now. I got your message.<em>**

_It's okay. You text me when you get a chance, if now's a bad time it's okay, I can wait._

**_No, we're good. Where are you at?_**

_Just getting into Florida. It's warm there all year. I'm tired of being cold._

**_Manda, you ok? I mean, Florida? You drove there all the way alone? In that piece of shit truck?_**

****_This piece of shit gets me where I need to be._

**_Are you alright?_**

****_Course I am. I always land on my feet._

**_Should've told me you were actually driving that far. I'd have met you halfway._**

_You log enough miles, you don't have to go out of your way for me._

**_Holy shit, you see who died?_**

****_No, who?_

**_Guy I used to work with, you're not big on wrestling, you probably don't know his name. I worked with him and his brother. He was a little fucked up but was decent people. Shame._**

****_Very much so. I don't wish death on anybody. Been through enough of it._

**_I hear that. Text me when you get settled and text me immediately if you need any cash._**

****_I'll text you when I get settled, Ran. I ain't hitting you up for cash._

_**We'll work it out in trade then, lol. **_

_?_

**_You fuck like a pro. And no matter what, men pay for it one way or another, lol. _**

****_Is that a complaint, compliment or an insult..?_

_**Probably a little of each. I'll see you soon.**_


	8. Chapter 8

**This is an off-site work in progress. What went down in Chapter 7 might have shocked you as much as it's shocked this writer, who's never gone down this road before. This chapter, #8, might be just as batshit, but I've got a feeling things will be wrapping up soon. Stay tuned. This story is not directly related, nor has anything to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. Reviews and suggestions welcome.**

* * *

><p>There was an emergency meeting of WWE employees at the night's venue. It was a Supershow, so it was easy to gather the talent at once. John Laurinaitis was the one who addressed everyone, who'd gathered in the arena seats to hear the official statement.<p>

"One of our past employees, as you know, was murdered just outside Fredonia, Kansas. It was pretty brutal. The police aren't releasing much information, but they say they're closing in on a suspect. We've beefed up security."

A couple of the talent scoffed. They knew who was killed and their thoughts went to the killing being possibly drug-related. It was John Morrison who stood up and asked the question on everyone's minds. "Why are you beefing up our security? That's stupid."

Hunter stepped forward. No one had known he was in the back of the mezzanine level of the arena. He was walking toward where Randy, Ted and Cody were sitting. "Because they're tracking the possible suspect through GPS on the deceased's phone. They took his cellphone, it's still on, and the GPS coordinates indicate that they're headed toward here."

The talent fell silent and all eyes were on Randy, Cody and Ted as Hunter asked them quietly to come with him. John Laurinaitis then resumed talking, but nobody was really listening.

* * *

><p>There were a couple of homicide detectives in the skybox that looked over the arena, as well as Vince, and Hunter walked in with the Legacy Trio. Cody and Ted looked rattled now, not knowing. Randy was his usual self, looking stoic, but even he wondered just what the fuck was going on.<p>

"The detectives need to look at your cellphones," Hunter said. The reason the 3 men were being asked to hand them over was so nobody felt singled out. Especially Randy, when it was -his- phone that was the one that the police were most interested in.

"Why?" Randy and Ted asked. Cody and Ted were reaching for theirs simultaneously to hand over, but Ted was asking. Randy was willing to turn it over but just wanted to know why.

The lead detective spoke.

"I don't want to speak out of turn, but with technology being an excellent tool for policework, we have a suspicion that the GPS coordinates of our suspect might match a contact in your address books. You 3 are very close, from what we understand. What we need to do is compare your contacts, we can likely rule out the triplicates...and just zero in on those who we don't rule out immediately. It shouldn't take more than 10 minutes. We can simply use the USB cable to link your phones to the laptop and run them. If you don't turn them over, we can get a subpoena."

Vince interrupted at that point. "That won't be necessary. My men will comply." Vince's tone left no room for negotiation. Randy took his phone out. His curiosity was now piqued. Ted and Cody didn't know what to think, and just watched.

Then the questions started. Questions similar to what Hunter had asked Cody. About strangers. Women.

* * *

><p>The internet was ablaze with conspiracy theories on why the deceased had been murdered. Everything from "drugs did it" to "Vince did it" was out there. It was ridiculous. But it served as a good smokescreen that no member of Creative could've come up with. In this instance, the fans provided cover for the cops.<p>

* * *

><p>I settled into my motel room just inside the Tampa city lines. It was a Motel 6, nothing fancy but not disgusting, and I figured a few hours sleep after the driving would do me some good. I texted Randy that I got there in one piece, just as I promised I would, before I took my shoes off and fell into bed. About 5 miles ago, I'd thrown the wallet that wasn't mine out the window after I cleared the cash out of it. The credit cards would've been too risky to keep and I didn't want his ID. Why would I want it? I was holding on to his cellphone so I could go through the contacts list and copy into my phone who I didn't have but might want to put on reserve, should things not work out. After the last exchange of texts with Randy, I was feeling unsure of things. That comment about fucking like a pro and him paying for it...maybe I was just being paranoid. I don't know. But after doing what I did, I wasn't gonna leave anything to chance.<p>

_I'm here, sweetie. Texting you just like you asked me to._

Ok...I texted him like he asked. Now almost an hour's gone by that I could use the sleep from, and he hasn't texted me back. What the fuck? God. If I wasn't so tired, I'd probably text him once more and say, uh, hello? You say "do as you're told, and I'm doing as I'm told.." but then I realize that it would've sounded pushy and bitchy and I'm better off trying to rest. Sleep will find me. It always does.

* * *

><p>The detectives blinked as they'd just disconnected Randy's cellphone from the USB cable. They'd connected his phone to the laptop last, and one of the techs were now scouring the lists of contacts. They'd narrowed the contacts that weren't in triplicate down to 17.<p>

And the GPS coordinates to the deceased's phones met EXACTLY one. The suspect was carrying 2 phones. Just like they thought.

They checked the text and one of the detective's jaws went a bit slack. That detective grabbed the lead detective and they walked out of the skybox to work a theory.

"The fuck's that about?" Randy asked Hunter.  
>"I don't know," Hunter said, but had a feeling he had a good idea of it.<p>

The women. Vince then spoke.

"Randy, I need to get you to do a urine test," he said. He wanted to rule out a drug angle before the cops did.

Randy looked blank. "But I just got tested 2 weeks ago...I'm clean," he said. Cody and Ted looked at each other. Maybe Randy would test positive for alcohol, but the WWE rule was 12 hours before a show, you couldn't drink. They were only 8 hours out. Hunter seemed to read the expressions on Legacy and said, "Vince, I don't think that's necessary."

Vince looked at Hunter. Hunter would one day be in charge, but that day wasn't right yet.

"Could I see you in private, Vince?" Hunter asked, and Vince walked to the far end of the skybox with him. They spoke quietly, and as hard as they tried, Cody, Ted nor Randy could make out any of the murmurings.

The detectives returned and everyone's attention was caught.

"Mr. Orton, we need you to reply to a text. But we need you to do it a certain way."

Randy was now completely lost but said, "Whatever you need."

* * *

><p>I slept like a fucking baby for the most part...if you remember that babies wake up and cry a lot. I wasn't crying because of what I did, though. I was crying because of the uncertainty. And being overtired, and probably feeling a little too vulnerable. I don't like vulnerability. But the spells of tears came and went and I felt like I was falling into a deeper sleep each time. For every 5 minutes of being awake, I had a good, solid 20 minutes of deep, black, dreamless, restorative sleep. It wasn't a bad tradeoff, except I'd have to find a grocery store and buy a cucumber and a knife before I'd let Randy see me, since my eyes were getting puffy and I'd need to hit him up for Botox money soon. A cucumber would have to do. Back to sleep...zzz<p>

* * *

><p>The detectives laid out their theory. And they did it in a language Randy could understand.<p>

"You've been played."

Vince, Hunter, Cody and Ted all heard it loud and clearly, but Randy looked confused. "What?" It wasn't a sarcastic 3:16 what, either, that he'd asked. He was genuinely not following.

"Amanda Morgan, you know her?" he was asked.

Randy nodded and gave an answer that Hunter and Vince had heard before along a similar line of questioning, an answer that Cody and Ted had the decency to cringe over when Randy said it, "I fuck her."

"Well, Amanda Morgan doesn't exist."

Now everybody except law enforcement looked confused. But it didn't take long to clear the confusion. The laptop pulled up her police records, past mugshots. Randy identified her positively as Amanda Darlene Morgan, even though that was just one of many aliases...the newest alias to enter the computer.

He was stunned to see that she had a record, had done time, her age.."She's fucking OLDER than me? The hell?" he asked. The lead detective rolled his eyes. "Her age is the least of our concerns," he snapped at Randy. "The fact that your little fuck on the side has very possibly killed a man is our concern. The fact that her GPS AND the deceased's GPS have the exact same coordinates and she's got a thing for 'rasslers has us devoting our manpower here. We're gonna take her down and try to do it as safely as possible."

"$5 says he fucks it up," Cody whispered to Ted, his gallows humor returning. Ted offered a grimace of a smile and said, "That's the one bet I don't want a a part of."

Hunter watched the younger men watching Randy. The younger generation as well as the older being himself, and the even older, being Vince, were watching Randy falter and hesitate. Randy had fucked up. No, he wasn't guilty of anything but bad judgment. Of course he didn't have a hand in the past employee's death, they believed. There was no blood on Randy's hands for this one. But his cock straying from his pants and from the woman he'd committed to contributed to one death already, the death that had horrified Cody, Hunter, and Ted as well.

Vince's mind was going to places that were more unsavory. He wondered if in fact Randy did have, in some inadvertent way, blood on his hands on this one. Vince knew ring rats. Especially the ones that tried to conceal themselves as 'decent women.'

Vince spoke up and offered -his- theory to the cops.

By the time Vince was done speaking, everyone looked blown away. They don't call Vince McMahon a genius for nothing. Maybe he was speaking from experience...nobody could ever prove anything with Snuka. Maybe Vince had a few women in his own past that had pulled stunts like this. No matter the case, the police compared Vince's theory with their own and found that they dovetailed perfectly.

"Randy," the lead detective said, "Fuck texting her. You need to call her directly, but let us write a script up. You can improvise if you absolutely have to, but try to stick to it."

"I..I can do that," Randy said, a knot in his own stomach forming. What if what Vince had just said was all true? What if this broad was a fucking wack job? What if she'd shown up in St. Charles and shot his wife and kid? It would take a lot of relying on his acting ability to pull this off, but he'd do it.


	9. Chapter 9

**This is an off-site work, wrapping up now. Chapters 1-4 were written in November 2010, and chapters 5-9 were written over the course of a 16 hour period. It wasn't planned to be this way...it's just turned out this way. Comments, complaints, whatever you wish can be left. We can see by the stats that you're reading the story, but we can't read your minds..please let us know your reactions, be they positive or negative. This was written on the fly, a product of sleep deprivation and caffeine. Hopefully, the loose ends are tied to everyone's satisfaction. Once more, this story is not directly related, nor has anything to do with current Beyond The Mat OCs. We own nor claim to own any of the WWE-related content, although we have borrowed liberally from their talent. :)**

* * *

><p>My phone woke me up. It was Randy's ringtone for a call, not a text. I woke up pretty quickly, pretty refreshed. Only an extra half-hour from when I last looked at the clock had passed by. I'm realizing I can do ok on little sleep. Maybe the big rest I got in the storage unit replenished me or something. Whatever the case, I cleared my throat of sleep before I answered. I wished I'd brushed my teeth before I slept, though. I can still taste cock in my mouth.<p>

* * *

><p>"Manda."<p>

"Randy."

"Got your text."

"Mhm...you told me to let you know when I got here, so I did."

"You doin' ok?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

-paused-

"Randy, you there?"

"Yeah..sorry, am in the locker room, reception's bad. Lemme step out a second. Can you hang on? Don't want the call to drop."

" 'k."

* * *

><p>The technician and detective gave Randy a thumbs up to continue. They'd gotten a lock on where the call had landed and the phone provider was getting an exact address.<p>

* * *

><p>"Sorry 'bout that. You gettin' rest?"<p>

"Mhm, but I'll be lookin' for a job in the mornin'."

"Yeah, well, we can talk about that later."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you were killin' yourself at Waffle House. You won't need to do that anymore, Amanda. I've done a lot of thinking."

"..what?"

* * *

><p>The detective made a motion, spinning with his finger like a fast-forward and whispered, "keep her talking".<p>

* * *

><p>"What what, you drove a long way to be with me. You just lost your mom, all you got is me. So...I'll take care of you."<p>

"Randy, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

* * *

><p>Randy smirked inwardly. "I'll take care of you" meant to him, "I'm helping the cops take you down, you lying fucking cunt."<p>

* * *

><p>"Yup."<p>

"No, say it, 'cause I don't wanna misunderstand."

* * *

><p>Cody and Ted watched. Ted wanted to throw up now, thinking if a ring rat had pulled something like this with him. Or what if Randy had been the one shot dead? He had an arsenal of weapons. The thought was chilling.<p>

* * *

><p>"I'm saying I'm gonna do the right thing."<p>

"What...what do you think the right thing ...is?"

* * *

><p>Everyone gathered around the laptop, except for Randy who'd now walked to the far end of the skybox. He'd walked there so the audio feed could be played just loudly enough for the others to hear, but not loud enough to have his phone pick up the reverb. Everyone was transfixed. Randy Orton was giving an Oscar-winning performance.<p>

* * *

><p>"The right thing, Manda..the only thing. I'll be with you."<p>

"Really?"

"Really."

"You...you want me to be yours?"

* * *

><p>I sat up on the bed, my heart flooding. I made it. I DID IT. Fuck you, Cinderella. Fuck you, Belle. Fuck you, Jasmine. Fuck you, Aurora. *I*, Trinity Rose Abernathy, was the Disney Princess now. I'd just been informed by my Prince Charming that he was coming for me. He didn't wear a suit of armor..instead, he came with tattooed sleeves...<p>

* * *

><p>"That's what I said, didn't I?"<p>

"Well..actually, no, you didn't. You said you'll be with me."

"Same thing."

"Okay."

* * *

><p>Marked and unmarked units surrounded the building. The SWAT team was now getting into position around the suspect's room.<p>

* * *

><p>"So you're feelin' alright? After that long-ass drive? I don't know how you did it..I mean, if I just lost -my- mom, I don't know. You're stronger than me, babe."<p>

"It's not about bein' strong, Randy. It's about doin' what you have to do. It's about survival, you know?"

"No..fortunately. My parents are living. Tell me."

"I'm a little tired yet to talk all that mess...but let's just say that we play the hand we're dealt, and we play to win."

"Really."

"Mhm..can you hang on? I hear somethin' outside the door."

"Not really..I gotta go soon."

"Hmm..'k. Well I guess if it's important, they'll come back."

* * *

><p>I sat back on the bed. I was halfway to the door to look out the peephole. It sounded like someone was creeping around outside the door. I've been in enough shitty motels to detect odd noises, but hearing Randy say he had to go soon told me to ignore the noise and just give him my attention now. It would pay off later. It's all been about the payoff later.<p>

* * *

><p>Randy heard it the closest, as it was to his ear, but the others heard it clearly.<p>

"POLICE! FREEZE!"

"What, I..."

"Trinity Rose Abernathy..you are under arrest for the murder of..."

* * *

><p>Randy hung up the phone, leaving the others on the opposite side of the skybox. He stepped into the restroom and breakfast made a reappearance, violently, from his stomach into the toilet.<p>

* * *

><p>"...you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law."<p>

"RANDY! I..you don't...oh my God..."

* * *

><p>Cody and Ted looked at each other as Randy reappeared from the restroom. He was devoid of color even under the tan. Maybe he wasn't such a monster. Maybe he had a moment of his conscience reappearing.<p>

Hunter wasn't so sure. Randy Orton wouldn't -be- Randy Orton without the instincts of a predator.

Vince, however, understood that the predator realized that he'd been targeted for prey.

There was change in the making. Much of it positive.

The body count would remain at two.

* * *

><p>Kansas has the death penalty but has not had an execution since 1976, so it was advisable to the deceased's fans not to clamor for it. Even if Trinity Rose Abernathy was sentenced to it, it would be in name only...<p>

...but it never got that far. It didn't get much further than 15 days in custody. The first 14 were spent on Suicide Watch. They'd cleared her to enter Gen Pop, and the moment they turned their backs, she hung herself in the cell, using a bedsheet.

All she'd wanted was to be taken care of. Looking at 25 years would've pegged her at almost 60 when she got out. Even if she was the 25-year old she'd claimed to be, she'd have been too old when she got out, and of course, eventually she would get out, to find a way to be taken care of. Prison would've taken care of her, technically, for a good stretch of time, but not good enough.

Some felt justice had been served, some felt that the taxpayers were saved money.

* * *

><p>Hunter, Ted and Cody felt that Randy had been affected deeply enough by this that Hunter didn't have to keep an eagle's eye on Cody and Ted anymore, but he informed the younger men that the door was always open.<p>

* * *

><p>Vince simply hoped that the incident would die a quiet death and that the rival organization would shoulder the blame since the ex-WWE employee was -their- employee and not Vince's. And yet, when any wrestler dies, even if he was employed by WWE for 15 minutes, he's tagged in the headlines as a "WWE Wrestler" and Vince is somehow the Devil Incarnate, to be blamed for each and every death regardless of the cause.<p>

* * *

><p>Randy set a record for not fucking around after this. 87 days. Granted, the slip was with a diva, but it wasn't a stranger. It was someone who -existed-. He'd try a little harder to devote himself to his family, but was making no promises. If anything, though, he was fucking around smarter, not harder.<p>

* * *

><p>Ted was spooked enough by the incident to renew his wedding vows and unlike Randy, didn't stray anymore. There were too many psycho broads out there and Ted found a new appreciation for what he had.<p> 


End file.
